Chapter 395: Pride and Fall
The sound of drums filled Chalco’s head once more. After their defeat in the lightning battle, he thought that he would never have to hear that noise again. That maybe, he could go back home and return to his quiet work as an architect, leading a fulfilling and quiet life.
Of course, life was cruel, and the Divines had more torture planned for him. Now, for the second time in his life, he had been forced into his family’s uncomfortable heirloom armor.
Every bone in his body was shaking from the noise of the drums, or maybe from the dread of what was to come. Uneasy hands gripped the old axe that his grandfather used to carry into the empire's last civil war. The weight of history gave him little relief.
“How does it look?” He asked the always reliable Pari in search of comfort. “You think we can do it?”
“Just some commoners on a hill.” The veteran spat on the ground. While Chalco looked like a child wearing a costume in his family armor, the old veteran’s armaments fit him like a second skin. “And they stopped building their fortifications. Their arrogance will be their undoing.”
The arrogant grin of the old warrior calmed down Chalco’s heart a bit, though not by much.
“Still looks dangerous,” he said.
“Then we will brave the danger and emerge on the other side, victory in hand.”
For a moment, Chalco pondered the fatalist nature of the answer, before he came to the conclusion that this would in fact be a tough fight. Pari was simply a madman for enjoying it.
“...how many do you think we will lose?” he asked.
“As many as we must.”
Thus, Pari nodded towards the architect, a permanent grin on his weathered face, and walked away, back towards his front line troops. Him and his army of two hundred - warriors and commoners alike - would do the important task of storming the hill.
They would draw the fire, while Chalco and a small group of thirty warriors would circle the enemy from the west. Once the commoners were surrounded, they couldn’t concentrate the fire of their new weapons in one direction and would be easy to take down. At least that was what Pari had claimed.
Maybe the veteran was too optimistic, or too stubborn, and simply didn’t want to admit his own defeat. Yet Chalco himself had not once questioned him. Although he didn’t like the old-fashioned brute, he would have to trust him in matters of combat. It was all he could do to stay sane in his desperation.
Thus, according to the plan drawn out by Pari, the architect Chalco took the thirty men entrusted to him and went on a snaking march south-west, through the hollows between the hills. After a while, his men were in position close to the enemy, to the west, atop a smaller elevation. For now, he would have to wait until Pari's main force had engaged the enemy. At least he wouldn’t be bored. From here, he had an outstanding view of Pari's advance.
Like a ship through waves, Pari and his warriors parted the snow on their charge up the hill. Their momentum was outstanding, but Chalco still wasn’t optimistic about their chances. He had been part of the last charge against the kingdom’s army after all.
He felt he knew how their war would end: Once again, they would bravely charge. Once again, the enemy would fire their devilish new weapons, and once again, their lines would break and their mighty warriors would flee in desperation. In the end, it seemed inevitable that the warriors would make way for this new method of war, that they would become just another ruin underneath the snow.
Maybe I should delay our charge for a while. Once the frontal army starts to break, we can retreat without any losses.
It was a cowardly thought, but to Chalco, it seemed completely reasonable. What else could he do but protect the lives of those entrusted to him? If he was just as much of a stubborn adherent to the old ways as Pari was, he would just die with him. Then who would bring back the message of their defeat? Who would return to defend Antila? Thus, he quelled the niggling feeling in the back of his head and continued to observe the state of battle, his flanking attack on the hill ready to spring at any moment.
Meanwhile, the battle had started exactly how Chalco had predicted. Pari and his men tore deep grooves in the snow behind them. They charged with the vigor of old, in a loose formation that would maximize each individual's combat prowess. In front of them ran the commoners who had been forced to participate, struggling in the snow, driven ahead by the threat of death through their masters right behind them.
Their formation and tactics were something that had brought them victory many times in the distant past, yet their new enemies atop the hill were ready as well. Although they had been surprised by the attack, they were trained well for commoners, and had found time to get into formation between their cannons. They held the hill as well, a deadly advantage against the warriors who were so reliant on momentum.
Like last time, Chalco heard the rhythmic music of the southern kingdom’s armies, the melody that had become synonymous with death ever since the southern king had returned to Medala years ago. Not long after, the first volley of cannon fire was followed by the first volley from the muskets.
As many of the dam crew's desperate commoners stumbled to the ground, snow splashed and mixed with dirt and blood. After the commoners had fulfilled their purpose, the warriors charged past them, some right over their screaming bodies, ever towards the enemy. Yet a second volley soon followed the first, and a row of warriors was mowed down to join their unfortunate servants.
Again, it was an image that was familiar to Chalco, one he had predicted. Yet what came next shocked him to his core. Pari was stopped in his tracks, clearly hit by some projectile. However, he didn’t go down like many of his fellow warriors, and he did not retreat like their lords had in the lightning battle. Instead, he gritted his teeth, let out a scream of anger and sped up again.
No fear, no hesitation, just like he said.
Once more, Pari charged up towards the enemy formation. Once more, the guns fired. However, no matter how many of them fell, the warriors of Medala would not break. What drove them onward was not the orders of their masters, or the fear of defeat. Chalco finally understood, it was the pride of their ancestry.
He himself was an architect, first and foremost. He had always taken pride in his education. In fact, he had always looked down on the warriors who had to earn their keep with their bodies, bleeding and dying for their lords in arenas or on the battlefield. His grandfather had been a ‘proper’ warrior and had tried to teach him about his family’s fighting traditions, but Chalco had always been preoccupied with more important matters.
In truth, he had never understood these ideas of glory and pride that his grandfather had talked about. Now, he finally did, just in time to witness the dying light of Medala’s mighty warrior caste.
We can’t stay here, we can’t let them fight alone.
Before, Chalco had planned to wait for Pari’s inevitable defeat, before he would retreat back to safety. Now however, he saw the light of victory, or at least an urge to die with his own.
He turned towards his small army and shouted “After me! Up the hill! For glory!” before he charged straight down the hill. The further he ran, the longer his strides became. His steps carried him all the way down one hill and then up the next, towards the river, towards the flank of their foes.
Maybe those defenders were already overwhelmed with the first wave of attackers, or maybe they had not anticipated an attack from the flank, but resistance along the way was far lighter than Chalco had expected.
Although his ears were still filled with the thunder of cannons and muskets, only a few sporadic shots splashed around him. Several of his warriors were left behind in the bloody snow, but Chalco continued to charge. All sound dulled under the rush of blood through his ear. Somehow, he could feel his armor mold around him, as if it fit him better now than it ever had before.
Maybe there were still many warriors following behind him, or maybe he was alone, but it didn’t matter anymore. Chalco had identified his goal, and he charged with unwavering conviction. Finally, he saw them: Only a few steps away, fewer than a hundred of the southern kingdom’s commoner soldiers, eager to prevent their flank from the side.
Without protection from walls and without superior numbers, the dreaded musketeers of the kingdom were no match for the great warriors of old. For a second, Chalco saw the fear in the defender’s eyes, his gun stock in the snow and a ramrod down the barrel in an attempt to reload for another deadly shot. Yet in his fear, he had forgotten his training and just stood there in awe of the ferocious, red-clad wave charging towards him.
His failure to follow his training would be his last mistake. Without hesitation, Chalco’s axe swung down, to end up in the commoner’s chest. By the time he retrieved the stuck axe, his men had followed, and breached into the defenseless enemy formation. Together, they cleaved a red path up the mountain. When Chalco came back to his senses, he had already crested the hill up to the small plateau on top, where the enemies had placed their cannons.
Thus, he reached the top of the hill and once again saw the carnage of the front line. During his own approach, he had lost sight of Pari’s charge, but he knew that they hadn’t given up. The sound of constant thunder had been replaced by the sound of a melee battle, dominated by shouts and screams, a surefire sign that they had managed to close the distance at last, to force the commoners onto a warrior’s battlefield.
Though he was exhausted from the long climb and the short battle, Chalco pressed on, towards the thick cloud of smoke. A look behind told him that most of his men were still with him, following his command. Finally, as a cold gust cleared the smoke in front, he saw the bright red colors of warrior armor once more.
By now, they had taken most of the defenders’ fortifications. The king's commoners, meanwhile, were huddled together between their cannons, trying to protect their lives and their positions with their strange long-axes and improvised spears made from muskets.
For now they were holding, and the small number of warriors opposing them told Chalco that their losses had been heavy, but their tenacity gave him all the time he needed.
Chalco waited a few moments so his men could catch up and built a solid line, before he would charge into the flanks of his enemies and destroy them completely. However, as he still hesitated to commandeer another attack, a shout broke through the noise.
“Retreat!”
Although the red armor of the warriors was a symbol of fear for their enemies, it was also, unfortunately, impossible to hide in the snow. They had been spotted before they could act. Thus, their foes - already under heavy pressure from the front - saw that they were about to be flanked and made the right decision. They left their fortifications, their supplies and their cannons atop the hill, and fled south along the river, back towards their main camp.
Meanwhile, a smaller group of maybe a hundred commoners remained around the cannons, to cover the retreat for their fleeing comrades.
At first, Chalco planned to follow the retreat and wipe them out once and for all, for the glory of his family, yet soon the cold wind atop the hill returned his sanity to him. When the defenders retreated, so did the smoke, which revealed the true cost of the battle, and the true carnage of war.
A long trail of red led up the hill along the warriors' path, littered with bodies. Only maybe half the warriors had made it up the hill, as far as Chalco could see, and none of the commoners had. Thus, horrified by what he saw, Chalco forgot all about his fleeing enemies, or about his glory. The blood in his head cooled and his grandfather’s armor ceased to fit once more. Instead, he tried to find a way to help.
His charge was no longer necessary, that much was clear from a glance. The battle was already decided. Less than a hundred of southern commoner soldiers were now huddled around their cannons. Their longaxes poked through their laughable fortifications, the only protection they had left. They were surrounded by two dozen warriors, who showed no urgency in their actions.
Charging into a hedgehog like that would only cause unnecessary losses, and their enemies weren’t shooting anymore. They had either run out of guns or powder.
As a result, the warriors had the leisure to slowly grind their enemies down. It was an operation the warriors were familiar with, so there was nothing left to fear from the remaining soldiers.
Rather than waste his time reinforcing a winning battle, he stumbled down the north side of the hill. Numb of body and mind, he followed ever along the trail of red. On a journey through the past, he came across warriors who sat in the snow, alone or in small groups, and were tending to their wounds. As he retraced the storm that their main force had taken up the hill, he also walked past many who simply lay there, not moving at all.
Some were commoners, others were warriors, and most of them were dead. He found many familiar armors among those bodies in the snow, all a testament to the proud glory of their families. All of them were people who had still worked for him just this morning, people he had been responsible for. Finally, he realized the heavy toll their attack had taken.
The warriors watched him walk past them in silence, while the commoners groaned and ached, too busy with their own tough lot to consider anyone else. Like a machine without thought, he just walked, looked at a dead man’s face and kept going, on and on, with no plan in mind. Finally, a familiar voice brought Chalco back to his senses.
“You are late, bricklayer.”
Pari, the old reliable veteran who had always looked so sure of himself lay there in his own blood. His face was stiff, and the puff of steam that escaped his mouth with every breath took another another bit of life from his body. His condition was obvious, yet Chalco still couldn’t believe it.
“Pari. What are you doing here?” he asked like an idiot.
“Dying, it seems.” The veteran laughed, but laughter turned into a cough. Chalco couldn’t see the humor. Yet somehow, the joke ripped him from the shock. In his frantic attempt to reach the old warrior, he slipped in the snow and continued to crawl towards the dying man.
“What happened?” Although it was still a dumb question, at least he managed to ask a relevant question.
“I was stupid.” Pari gave a vulnerable smile, so different from his usual, dismissive grin. “If I had fought back properly, instead of trying to show off and act tough, not so many of our guys would have died. Guess all the nonsense about pride went to my head.”
Chalco tried to stem the blood flowing from Pari’s rib cage with his hands, but the armor was in the way. His bloodied glove tried to fumble for the armor’s release, yet he remained without success until Pari pushed away his arm.
“Don’t worry about it, bricklayer. Too late.”
Chalco’s useless hands fell to his side, into the cold snow. A few more seconds passed until he managed to process what was about to happen. In the end, all he could do was try to comfort a dying man.
“But… at least we managed to hit them hard, right?” he said. “We showed our strength, and we took the hill.”
“Not enough.” Pari shook his head, as always dismissive of Chalco’s words. “We lost too many. We can’t hold the hill until reinforcements show up from Antila. It’s too far away. Their fleeing people will reach their camp before we get back, so their reinforcements will come earlier. It’s done. We lose.”
“But…”
Again, Chalco stared in silence as he tried to come up with a reply. Yet no words would come forth. No matter how hard he tried, he simply could not find a way to argue with the facts.
In the end, it was Pari who broke the silence again. “No, we can’t win here. We’ll just spill more blood for no gain. Take the rest of the men, those who can still walk, and get them back across the river. At least now, no one can blame you that your plan failed. Not with those losses. And we even got a few of their big cannons. I hear the foreigners pay a fortune for one of those. Maybe that will be enough for you to return home a rich man.”
Without a word, Chalco stood and returned to the top of the hill. Just like he had done before, he simply followed Pari’s orders, without thinking about anything. By the time he reached the crest, the remaining commoner soldiers had already dropped their weapons and surrendered. The battle was finally over.
Thus, Chalco commanded the remaining warriors to dispossess and bind the commoners. Just as Pari had ordered, they took the injured and dead comrades, as well as the three heavy cannons, and returned back north, back home.
Chalco himself carried Pari. The old guard’s breath ceased to create steam by the time he returned to pick him up, and his blood had run cold by the time Chalco had crossed the river.
Considered one of the last successful charges of medalan warriors against line infantry in medalan history, the ‘charge of cannon hill’ was hard-earned. Out of the 104 warriors who followed the charge that day, only 64 remained to bury the dead. Although the battle was a tactical victory for the rebel forces, the heavy losses proved too costly and forced the warriors to retreat back to the east side of the river shortly after.